Uncanny Magazine Issue 9 Read online

  UNCANNY MAGAZINE

  “Uncanny Magazine Editorial Staff” by Uncanny Magazine

  About Our Cover Artist: Katy Shuttleworth by Katy Shuttleworth

  “The Uncanny Valley” by Lynne M. Thomas and Michael Damian Thomas

  “Love Is Never Still” by Rachel Swirsky

  “The Shadow Collector” by Shveta Thakrar

  “Big Thrull and the Askin’ Man” by Max Gladstone

  “The Wolf and the Tower Unwoven” by Kelly Sandoval

  “The Artificial Bees” by Simon Guerrier

  “Just Another Future Song” by Daryl Gregory

  “Men of Their Times” by Jim C. Hines

  “Furry Fandom” by Kyell Gold

  “The Transmigration of George R. R. Martin” by Javier Grillo–Marxuach

  “Closing the Gap: The Blurring of Fan and Professional” by Mark Oshiro

  “Foxgirl Cycle Song: 1” by C. S. E. Cooney

  “The Book of Forgetting” by Jennifer Crow

  “god–date” by Brandon O’Brien

  “Interview: Rachel Swirsky” by Deborah Stanish

  “Interview: Simon Guerrier” by Deborah Stanish

  “Thank You, Patreon Supporters” by Lynne M. Thomas and Michael Damian Thomas

  Edited by Lynne M. Thomas, Michael Damian Thomas, and Michi Trota

  Ebook generated by Clockpunk Studios.

  Copyright © 2016 by Uncanny Magazine.

  www.uncannymagazine.com

  Uncanny Magazine Editorial Staff

  Publishers/Editors–in–Chief: Lynne M. Thomas & Michael Damian Thomas

  Managing Editor: Michi Trota

  Podcast Producers: Erika Ensign and Steven Schapansky

  Interviewer: Deborah Stanish

  Podcast Reader: Amal El–Mohtar

  Submissions Editors: Alex Kane, Andrea Berns, Arkady Martine, Ashley Gallagher, Cislyn Smith, Elizabeth Neering, Heather Clitheroe, Jen R. Albert, Jesse Lex, Jessica Wolf, K.E. Bergdoll, Kay Taylor Rea, Lesley Smith, Liam Meilleur, Mishell Baker, Piper Hale, Shannon Page, Vida Cruz, Lena Ye

  Logo & Wordmark design: Katy Shuttleworth

  About Our Cover Artist: Katy Shuttleworth

  Katy Shuttleworth is a freelance animator, storyboarder, and illustrator. She’s worked on various television shows including the Emmy Award–winning WordGirl. She’s also the cover artist for the ongoing Geek Girl Chronicles series, born from the Hugo Award–winning Chicks Dig Time Lords’ success. When she isn’t animating or drawing, she’s probably painting custom matryoshka dolls. She currently lives in Los Angeles with her two marimos.

  The Uncanny Valley

  by Lynne M. Thomas and Michael Damian Thomas

  It’s the spring issue of Uncanny Magazine! Flowers! Trees! Wicker Men! Please feel free to read this outside in a park—unless it’s raining because that would be bad for your tech. Since this is a time of growth and renewal, we should lead with our super exciting news. Most of you will know this already from our blog and social media, but we can’t announce it enough.

  The fabulous Julia Rios will be the new Uncanny Magazine Reprint/Poetry Editor starting with Issue 10! Julia Rios is a Hugo Award–nominated editor and podcaster, plus a writer and narrator. She was a fiction editor for Strange Horizons from 2012 to 2015, and is co–editor with Alisa Krasnostein of Kaleidoscope: Diverse YA Science Fiction and Fantasy Stories, and the Year’s Best YA Speculative Fiction series. She is also a co–host of the Hugo–nominated podcast, The Skiffy and Fanty Show. These are just some of her epic accomplishments! We’ve known Julia for years and have always admired her work. We couldn’t be more thrilled to be adding Julia to Team Uncanny.

  In other Uncanny Magazine news you probably know, we have tabulated the results of the Uncanny Magazine 2015 Favorite Short Story Poll, and “Pockets” by Amal El–Mohtar came in FIRST PLACE! Congratulations, Amal! Amal will be receiving a FANCY CERTIFICATE suitable for framing. Second Place went to “Folding Beijing” by Hao Jingfang, translated by Ken Liu, and Third Place went to “Wooden Feathers” by Ursula Vernon. Congratulations, everybody! Thank you, Space Unicorns, for participating!

  We will have the results of the 2015 polls for other Uncanny content in our next issue.

  At this point, Hugo Award nominating season is in full swing. As a reminder, Uncanny Magazine is eligible in the (sometimes confusing) Best Semiprozine category. Congratulations to Apex Magazine and Lightspeed Magazine for losing their eligibility by becoming professional as defined by the Hugo rules. Here is a list of all of the Semiprozines .

  As a reminder, here is where you can find a list of all of the 2015 Uncanny Magazine stories divided by whether they qualify in the Best Novelette or Best Short Story categories.

  Have fun if you’re nominating!

  The Thomases have returned from a magnificent ConFusion convention and an excellent Capricon convention. We saw friends and colleagues, went to a Hamilton sing–along, and basically committed all the shenanigans. Our next convention is the gigantic C2E2 convention in Chicago. If you want to meet us and Managing Editor Michi Trota, that is a place to find us.

  And now, behold, the contents of this marvelous issue! Our cover is by the designer of the universally famous Space Unicorn logo, the fantastic Katy Shuttleworth, and is called “Strange Companions.” Our new fiction this month features a gorgeous and intricate examination of love and obsession by Rachel Swirsky, “Love Is Never Still,” a haunting and passionate story by Shveta Thakrar, “The Shadow Collector,” Max Gladstone’s fantastic and fun yarn “Big Thrull and the Askin’ Man,” Kelly Sandoval’s heart–wrenching and beautiful “The Wolf and the Tower Unwoven,” and finally Simon Guerrier’s cheeky and bittersweet “The Artificial Bees.” As we write this, David Bowie passed away only a few weeks ago. In memory of Bowie and how his work affected many of us, our reprint this month is Daryl Gregory’s surreal Bowie examination “Just Another Future Song,” originally published in Glitter & Mayhem, the SF/F nightlife/roller derby anthology we co–edited with John Klima.

  Our essays this month feature Jim C. Hines poking holes in a tired defense of racism by historical figures, Kyell Gold introducing us to the fabulous world of furry fandom, an examination of the “Phildickian” existence of author George R. R. Martin by Javier Grillo–Marxuach, and finally a fascinating discussion about the increasingly blurred lines between “fan” and “pro” by Mark Oshiro. Our poetry this month features C. S. E. Cooney’s fierce “Foxgirl Cycle 1,” Jennifer Crow’s powerful “The Book of Forgetting,” and Brandon O’Brien’s darkly playful “god–date.” Finally, Deborah Stanish interviews Rachel Swirsky and Simon Guerrier about their stories.

  Podcast 9A features Amal El–Mohtar reading Shveta Thakrar’s “The Shadow Collector,” Erika Ensign reading C. S. E. Cooney’s “Foxgirl Cycle 1,” and Deborah Stanish interviewing Shveta Thakrar. Podcast 9B features Heath Miller reading Max Gladstone’s “Big Thrull and the Askin’ Man,” Erika Ensign reading Jennifer Crow’s “The Book of Forgetting,” and Deborah Stanish interviewing Max Gladstone.

  Please enjoy the latest issue of Uncanny Magazine, and thank you all so much for your continued support.

  © 2016 by Lynne M. Thomas and Michael Damian Thomas

  Lynne and Michael are the Publishers/Editors–in–Chief for Uncanny: A Magazine of Science Fiction and Fantasy.

  Three–time Hugo Award winner Lynne M. Thomas was the Editor–in–Chief of Apex Magazine (2011–2013). She co–edited the Hugo Award–winning Chicks Dig Time Lords, as well as Whedonistas and Chicks Dig Comics.

  Along with being a two–time Hugo Award nominee as the former Managing Editor of Apex Magazine (2012–2013) Michael Damian Thomas co–edited the Hugo–nominated Queers Dig
Time Lords (Mad Norwegian Press, 2013) with Sigrid Ellis and Glitter & Mayhem (Apex Publications, 2013), with John Klima and Lynne M. Thomas.

  Together, they solve mysteries.

  Love Is Never Still

  by Rachel Swirsky

  The Sculptor

  Through every moment of carving, I want her as one wants a woman. I want this lithe creature whose limbs I’ve freed from their ivory enclosures, whose rounds and slopes are discovering their shapes beneath my chisel. She is delicately colored like the palest of women, and when I run my fingers across the plump of her arm, she is smooth and cold.

  When necessity requires I set down my tools and leave my estate, all I see are marked bodies. Cooks and merchants, sailors and slaves, rich men and prostitutes—all wear scars and wrinkles and poxes and rotting teeth.

  I am sculpting perfection no woman born from mortal flesh can match. I lift my hands to her bosom. Her ivory is soft beneath my palms. I fear I would bruise her if I pressed too eagerly.

  Galatea

  I am asleep but not sleeping. I am awareness without thought. Objects made by men and gods are like that; we abide in our purpose, complete and content.

  The Sculptor

  I’ve loved other sculptures. Though I’m not yet old, I have worked diligently at my art, and so have loved hundreds. I have loved leaping horses and dour–faced spearmen and exotic animals pieced together from sailors’ descriptions.

  Galatea is my culmination. From the beginning, winnowing the ivory to her form has felt more like discovery than invention. Our bodies move together in conversation; mine contorts as I twist and crouch to discover precise angles, and she emerges from my labor.

  I think of nothing but her. I linger with her daily, only noticing the sun for the way it shifts shadow patterns across her figure. My slaves are loyal and speak concern; they bring necessities when I forget to eat.

  Galatea

  He has begun to call me Galatea. In soft tones, he murmurs this name as he brings gifts. He bestows nature’s adornments on me: cockle shells, doves, Myrrh resin, and flowers in myriad hues. He drapes me with jewelry worked from gold and pearls.

  He has not yet completed me, though an afternoon’s hard work would do so. Instead, he only takes up his instruments for a moment in the mornings, and afterward sets them down again so that he can stroke my arms, ornament me with gifts, or whisper endearments in my ear.

  The Sculptor

  Galatea is flawless to my eye. Yet even if she were flawed, those flaws would be of my own making. Marrying a flesh–born woman would subject me to the capriciousness of fates and men. I would be forced to endure my wife’s imperfections, knowing they were none of my doing. If Galatea were my bride then I could blame none but myself for whatever faults time might reveal.

  She remains lifeless in my arms. Her skin–soft ivory does not return my embrace.

  Man may create many things: his home, his work, his presence in the world. Yet he is denied the greatest challenge of all, to create the embodiment of his desire.

  Summer

  I ripen like overhanging fruit, and the sculptor’s love ripens with me. I am Summer and I belong to love: my endless golden hours meant for savoring, my blazing noons, my lingering evening kiss. I am lustful like cicada song; I am the sultry recline of lovers; I am pregnant with harvests.

  Under my swollen, sated sun, men and women gather to celebrate the Festival of Aphrodite. They laugh and dance and sing praises to her grace. In her honor, priests sacrifice white–necked heifers with wide, gilded horns. The fallen animals join other tributes: garlands of flowers in perfumed skeins, pots of smoking frankincense.

  The sculptor goes to the festival as he might any year. He carries a cloth to wipe away the sweat I draw from his brow. His heart is heavy with confusion, shame, and yearning. He has no thought of hope; he knows the impossibility of his desire.

  Though no mortal knows, Foam Born Aphrodite has come as well. Even disguised as a mortal maid, she is glorious. My sun gleams golden on her hair, and my earth is warm beneath her feet.

  Aphrodite

  I bathe in celebratory scents: balsam and cinnamon, hyacinth and lily, styrax and sweet rush. I stroke the garlands that have been left for me, luxuriating in the subtle texture of rose petals. A man sings instructions to his trained doves, and a woman displays swift, white hares which are blessed with my fertility. Someone tosses me an apple; I bite into juicy, pink flesh.

  I am in need of distraction. Of late, Ares will not be denied. Every night, he appears at my window, shining armor piercing the dark. Hephaestus sleeps deeply, but even he will eventually wake under such provocation. I have told Ares not to come; I have told him he presumes too much of me. He does not care. He knows the risk of waking Hephaestus will force me outside.

  Nightly, I resolve not to submit to this coercion, but thus far I have always yielded. When we are a tangle of bronze and limbs, I cannot deny the passion that drives me to him. It urges me to run my tongue along his neck until my teeth find, with gentle bite, his tender earlobe. It gives relish to the taste of salt sweat on his throat. He is the god of war; he is ambition translating perfectly into action. He will not walk when he can run; he will not speak when he can battle; he will not hesitate when he can devour me.

  Wind blows the scent of frankincense nearer. The hares dart like quick, alert arrows. The apple’s juices are sweet and tart.

  Love is a spark, a winging bird, a waterfall splash. It is immediate; it is urgent; it is spontaneous. Like Ares, it moves with perfect, bold unity. It is a fully embodied moment, experienced with every incendiary, saturated sense. It is the smell of a lover and the bite of a provocative glance. I am love, and I am all these things.

  The Sculptor

  Desire cinches my throat like a torc. Love is air; I am breathless for its lack.

  As I stand among the tributes laid for Aphrodite, sudden hope stirs me. Others plead their desires, however impossible. Why shouldn’t I do the same? I rush to buy the goddess offerings of my own and press them to her altars. My mind empties of everything but Galatea’s face and my words: Queen of Laughter, I pray to have as wife—

  There I stop, still afraid to speak the rest: to have as wife my ivory maid.

  Aphrodite

  He does not know I am nearby, the maiden biting into an apple to hide her laugh as she watches flowers tumble from his arms. I smell his body’s longing scent mingled with the perfumes saturating his skin.

  It is an insignificant request, and it amuses me to grant it. With the same thought I would give to brushing away a fly, I raise my hand. The flame on my altar leaps three times: it’s done.

  Galatea

  The first flame is a flicker of ash and warmth like someone’s hand running over my shoulder, summoning me from sleep. The second wakes me from the certainty of objects, and kindles capricious awareness in my chest.

  The third burns away my stasis and renders me molten.

  I stand alone on my pedestal under the shadow of the olive trees. All afternoon, the wind’s breath has diverted around me, leaving me solid and unmoved. Now, it shifts me. My feet rock to compensate and keep me upright.

  Around me, there is motion everywhere. Air stirs the grass and wildflower petals and olive leaves. Clouds distort as they scull across the sky. A partridge ambles between patches of dirt, and a rat rises on its hindquarters to survey its surroundings.

  The instinct of movement is not in me. I would remain as I am, but my muscles and joints betray. I fall to the ground, hopeless to understand my new flesh.

  The Sculptor

  I find her fallen. She is as exquisite as I made her, as delicate and shapely and smooth. Though I saw the goddess’ thrice–leaping flame, if it were not for the movement of her breath, I would believe her a statue still.

  I rush to assist her. My fingers, grasping her hand, meet yielding warmth. The bluish flush of veins branches beneath her wrist. I lay my lips across them, relishing the tenderness. Her pulse greets m
e, a rhythmic gift from gracious Aphrodite.

  I help her to stand. Just as it did when I carved her, her body shifts in response to mine. She is ungainly, unaccustomed to her new form. She attains her feet, but slumps against me, and does not seem to know how to pull upright. I ease her into the right position and withdraw my support. She is like a colt; her legs tremble, but even newborn, she holds her weight.

  I cast my gaze to her eyes. Though other parts of her body have shifted in color—the rose tinge to her cheeks, the brush of blood on her leg where a branch scratched her when she fell—her eyes remain stark, convex ivory without pupil or iris.

  It is then, regarding their baldness, that dread’s cloak settles on my shoulders. I have done something terribly wrong, and like a rash drive of the chisel, my mistake cannot be undone.

  Aphrodite

  Mortals forget that love comes in many forms. They think they can predict the course of emotion as a sailor knows his path down a river. In truth, even rivers change; even two erotic loves will never run the same.

  When mortals forge beyond familiar waters, their blinkered under–standing persuades them to expect territory like what they know. To love a bull or a swan or a golden rain: how can mortals imagine this will twin man merging with woman?

  Love is unique. It flows, continuous but unceasingly transformed. It is a rare flower that blooms a single day. It is the snap of now, tumbling, uncatchable. Like life itself, love cannot be repeated. It is as ephemeral as the memories dead mortals pour into Lethe like rain.

  Pour love into a statue if you wish. Pour enough love that your prayers reach me where I stand, laughing, an apple in my hand. Pour enough that I may, on a whim, send you a signal in flame that I’ve granted your desire.

  Do these things if you will, but remember your love is a statue, not a woman. If she is not what you wanted, remonstrate yourself.

  The Fates

  Rich–crowned Aphrodite possesses many gifts, but she does not spin the thread, measure its length, or wield the dread scissors. Those duties belong to us, the relentless, ancient spinners, Klothos and Lakhesis and Atropos.